


Discipline

by invisibledeity



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: BDSM, D/s, M/M, Multi, Starscourge, Threesome, Wax Play, bratty sub prompto, flagellation, reader can be either male or female as you like, tag teaming, the language is nonspecific in that regard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 10:55:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17242979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledeity/pseuds/invisibledeity
Summary: As a Glaive infected with the Starscourge, you have found your way to Chancellor Ardyn Izunia, seeking a favour for a favour. But today, he has brought a friend for you to play with.





	Discipline

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a Christmas present for @bestchocobro and partner - the challenge was to write something that either could selfinsert into, so our dear Glaive is as non-gender-specific as possible. It was a lot of fun - enjoy~

  

‘Oh, you came back.’

            The voice that greets you is more of a purr than anything else, and it sets you shivering. But you hold your ground, poised on the lower step, as he sweeps into view. You wait, watching him move into position. He beckons you to join him at the top of the stairs, and you obey, climbing the dark, fine-cut rock with tension in your legs and trepidation in your breath. You try to remind yourself why you’re doing this, but reason seems so far from your mind right now.

            When you reach the top, when the shadow of the man before you comes into clarity, you want to say something, but your throat is dry.

            His hair frays and curls in the uplit gloom; the slightest hint of red. He reaches a hand out to you, stopping inches from your face, moving so close to your skin as if he’s casting a spell, and his elaborate long cuffs trail against your cheek. You try your hardest not to flinch. There’s dark miasma surrounding you, again clouding your senses, drawing you in.

            This is why you’ve come back, and oh, how he knows it.

            ‘My sweet Glaive,’ he purrs, ‘wouldn’t your dear Marshal be appalled to know where you have been spending your time?’

            ‘Chancellor,’ you say breathlessly, but he holds a finger to your lips, stilling you into silence. You stay right where you are, standing to attention as if awaiting an order from a drill sergeant. But Chancellor Ardyn Izunia merely watches you, his eyes flickering with delight, before he snaps his attention away. You notice the bag at his feet then; he steps over it with feline grace.

            ‘Today, I have a friend for you to play with.’ He tugs on the leash at his side, something else you had not noticed until now. ‘Do come out.’

            The leash is long, trailing on the ground to a dark corner of the room. There’s a small whimper, and a shuffling noise. Out of the shadows walks a young man, half-naked and cold and looking sorry for himself. His hands are cuffed in front of him; delicate metal rings connected only by a thin chain.

            You recognise him immediately. Prompto Argentum, the Crownsguard, beloved aide to the King.

            ‘Prompto…’

            He doesn’t even look at you.

            The Chancellor laughs, and pulls him forward. Hands meander across bare skin, teasing, grabbing, fussing, until he’s manoeuvred behind him, clasping him in a tight embrace. Prompto’s cheeks are reddening by the second; his body seems to crave the warmth, but as for how wanted it is, well… he looks like he has given up complaining a long time ago.

            ‘Stop it,’ you say, before you can prevent yourself. At this, the Chancellor looks up, and his fingernails press in at Prompto’s throat.

            ‘No, no, please…’ Prompto’s fervent begging is strained from the pressure at his throat, and this, if nothing else, makes the Chancellor laugh.

            ‘He really is quite adorable, is he not?’

            ‘Yes,’ you say weakly. The starscourge miasma running through your veins is making it hard to disobey. But you want to ask, you want to know — is he here for the same reason as you?

            ‘I thought,’ Ardyn says, pausing to poke the toe of his boot ponderously at Prompto’s heel, ‘we could all have some fun together. Wouldn’t you like that?’

            The silence speaks volumes. With the leather collar, and his ashamed, downcast expression, Prompto looks like a puppy with its tail between its legs.

            You want to edge forward. There’s an energy uncoiling deep inside you; you’re horribly attracted and disgusted at the same time, part of you wishing — and willing — to trade places with Prompto, and part of you wanting to run as fast as you can.

            The Chancellor extends one hand to Prompto; a gesture as stark as his words are stern.

            ‘Kneel.’

            At this point, Prompto seems to find his voice.

            ‘No.’

            ‘Prompto…’

            ‘No. I won’t.’

            The Chancellor sighs, and it’s theatrical, as though he’s merely playing the part of the exasperated owner.

            ‘We’ve talked about this, Prompto…’

            For a moment, there’s genuine ire in Prompto’s eyes.

            ‘You think you can just make me do whatever you want?’

            ‘My boy, you came here because you wanted to, remember that.’

            Prompto seethes. But he stays quiet. It’s so odd to watch, it’s as though he’s battling with himself, and it makes you wonder, perhaps he really is here because he asked to be?

            ‘Oh, you never learn, do you?’

            Ardyn yanks him forward, and lashes the leather cord around one of the pillars adorning the Citadel’s vestibule. It affords plenty of slack, enough for him to place both hands on Prompto’s bare shoulders, and force him to his knees. Prompto’s lips quirk downwards in a frown, but he complies. The Chancellor whispers sweet nothings into his ears, brushing back his hair, then he straightens up. Reaching to that curious bag now, and he throws you something; leathery and thin and hooping in limp circles.

            A whip.

            ‘I’ll have you teach him a lesson today.’

            He leans back over, and starts to fuss at Prompto’s belt. As he cinches down his pants — the only item of clothing he has on — Prompto complains.

            ‘No, no, c’mon, it’s cold, I… Can’t we go inside?’

            The Chancellor brushes back his hair again, his face the very picture of loving devotion. ‘Oh, Prompto, it’ll be fun out here! It’s only a quick game.’ He finishes yanking his pants down to his knees, then prods the back of Prompto’s neck gently, urging his torso forwards. Prompto complies, and plants his shackled hands carefully on the ground before him.

            ‘Fine, fine, okay…’ he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. He shuffles, until he’s in the position Ardyn desires, naked and bared.

            You edge forward, letting the whip dangle from your hand. You have a question before this begins and you need to ask it now, before the miasma clouds your mind too much.

            ‘Is he your prisoner? Am I?’

            ‘Oh, heavens, no! You may leave whenever you wish it. Although,’ he says, ‘I get the most curious feeling that neither of you want to do that right now.’

            ‘Fuck off, Ardyn,’ Prompto growls, and the Chancellor looks in shock.

            ‘If you continue to speak in such a manner, I’ll have to stopper that mouth of yours. Hm…’ He steps over him, boxing him in with legs planted either side. ‘Perhaps I shall do so anyway.’ It does not take him long to unravel the thin red scarf from around his own neck and stuff it into Prompto’s mouth, forcing it between teeth before clapping a hand down across his lips. Then he removes another scarf, and it’s the first time you’ve seen a practical use for the numerous layers of clothing he favours. The second scarf — grey, patterned and just as thin — he uses to secure the gag in place. Prompto sniffs, and huffs through the gag, but his cock throbs, and this makes the Chancellor grin devilishly. He grazes a hand across the tip, and Prompto’s huffs turn to sounds of yearning.

            ‘Oh, the things I do to make you happy,’ the Chancellor says. He steps away — Prompto swoons forward in the inertia — and turns back to you. ‘But I’ve taken the centre stage too much. Now, my dear, it is up… to you.’

            A flourish, and he backs away, leaving Prompto tied, gagged and naked to the knees in the centre of the hall.

            You gulp. There’s a pulsing sensation, low in your gut, and you’re not accustomed to being the dominant one, but… maybe you can do it, since Ardyn is the one instructing you. The miasma clusters at the edges of your vision as you step forward; you can feel its energy infecting your veins, glittering alongside platelets and plasma and urging you on. You steady yourself at Prompto’s back, and raise the whip. He’s steeling himself beneath you; his skin is practically vibrating with anticipation, or perhaps fear. You consider apologising, but you refrain. Only silence, then —

            You bring the whip down with an agonising crack. Prompto cries out through the gag.

            ‘Not a bad start,’ the Chancellor says. He’s eyeing the welt you’ve left in your wake, and you feel a bit disappointed. _Not bad?_

            The next strike is harder, and so is the next, and you carry on in this fashion, increasing the force until Prompto is crying for you to stop. His back and his buttocks are a criss-cross of welts, all rich and rosy in the cold. How beautifully he suffers, and it’s getting you so fired up just watching him, just seeing the evidence of each of your strikes on his skin. Eventually, the Chancellor clears his throat.

            ‘That’s quite enough.’ He’s not chiding you, merely stating a fact, and when you look at him he’s smiling, not wide but smug.

            Prompto’s shuddering beneath you.

            You can’t stop yourself. You’re down on your knees too, leaning in to wipe tears from his face, to whisper ‘It’s okay, it’s okay.’ He responds to this with a soft murmur, his words unintelligible through the gag, and he nuzzles into your touch like a starved animal. His wide, gorgeous eyes search yours. When you press a kiss against his cheek, shackled hands move up to hold your forearm.

            The Chancellor watches you both with a ravenous gaze.

            ‘What a way to spend the time while waiting for the dawn to return.’ He seems utterly pleased with himself.

            You break contact with Prompto, and fall back into place. The Chancellor smirks.

            ‘No need to stop, please. Continue. Oh, and Prompto…’ — the young Crownsguard looks up at him instantly — ‘you may remove the gag. Make it easier for yourself.’

            Prompto obeys. A quick tug on the scarf fabric around his chin, and the gag comes loose to the accompaniment of thin chains jangling. Then he yearns up towards you again and you find yourself sinking down, pressing the same soft kisses onto his skin as before, as if each one will make up for a lash of the whip. He’s murmuring and sighing and _oh_ — you see why the Chancellor would want him in his thrall. It’s as though he doesn’t even realise how hot he is. A strange kind of innocence, considering the reason he is here. And you take full advantage of it, falling into him, showering him with attention until the Chancellor tells you to stop.

            ‘Now. Fuck him.’

            You breathe in sharply. You look at Prompto — he mouths ‘Please.’

            So you nod, and say to Ardyn, ‘Yes, Sir.’ You break away from Prompto and for a moment you stall, trying to figure out how you’re going to approach this. Eventually you reach for your belt.

            ‘Ah,’ — Ardyn stops you — ‘not like that.’ He picks out something from the bag, throws it your way. ‘Use this.’

            You barely manage to catch it. Something large, squishy, and almost jelly-like, if not for the stiffness. It’s —

            ‘Are… are you sure?’

            ‘Oh, he can handle it.’

            You’re not convinced. There’s a point near the base of the dildo where your hand struggles to encircle it fully.

            Below you, Prompto huffs, wiggling ever so slightly, and his cheeks are more flushed than ever.

            _He’s done this before._

‘O-okay,’ you say. There’s a harness secured to the base of the dildo, and it’s easy enough to figure out, although every move made in attaching it feels far too slow. Running through treacle. The pressure of performance is far too strong.

            When you’re done, you stroke along Prompto’s back, fingers dragging lightly on skin — anything to increase his anticipation, to make him tremble more than you. As you manoeuvre behind him, cupping his ass, you delve a finger between his cheeks. His breath quickens, and you stop.

            ‘I need lube.’

            The Chancellor gives you a look that you assume would be withering, if only he did not seem so amused. He reaches out a hand in your direction, but he’s not aiming at you. For the briefest of seconds his focus is a thousand yards off, then there’s a bubbling and twisting of the fabric of the world at your feet, and you feel a hideous pull at your centre of gravity. A well of darkness grows, shadows rising out of the ground, and your first reaction is to panic. You are all too familiar with this — a daemon well — although you are more used to seeing them outside the gates of Lestallum, spawning daemons to attack the citizens.

            An oily substance oozes out of the shadow. Dark tendrils, slicking the toy with lubricant. You’re too shocked to move. The idea that one of these demon wells could be used for something like this — it’s miles apart from the kind of struggle you’re used to when encountering these things.

            More than that, the mere presence of the well only serves to increase your guilt. You stay still as it spawns up then bubbles back down into nothing. You’re flushing warm and Ardyn’s finding immense pleasure in this.

            ‘Will that not do?’

            You search for your voice.

            ‘Um, y-yes, Sir.’

            ‘Sir? Oh, such manners…’ He slaps Prompto’s cheek. ‘I think you could learn from that.’  Then he pushes Prompto’s head down with little ceremony; the movement ends up angling his ass towards you. Attention all on you again, and suddenly the harness feels too tight. Your muscles are throbbing, around your thighs, around your groin. You feel almost dizzy. Then the Chancellor says, ‘Do begin.’

            You step forward, falling to your knees in order to angle yourself in just right. Your hands travel over Prompto’s ass, over the reddened whip-marked skin, before hovering around his asshole. Slicking your own fingers with some of the dark lubricant dripping from the strap-on, you delve in. Gods above, he’s so _tight_. You hook your finger on the outstroke and he mewls, bucking and then pushing against you, begging for more with his body language. He’s so needy, and this really gets you going. You thrust in, working him open until his muscles are relaxed enough to spread wide.

            And all the while, the Chancellor makes appeased noises above you, little hums and whispers. You can see his hand moving beneath his coat and gods, he’s enjoying the show.

            Finally your fingers retract, and you brace the tip of the dildo against Prompto’s asshole. You’re just wavering on the perimeter, trying to decide how to get the girth of the thing in, when the Chancellor talks over you.

            ‘You don’t need to be kind — he can take it.’

            A small noise from Prompto in return.

            You breathe deep, and push forward. It’s hard to know what you’re hitting, exactly. Like the dildo, the mind-body disconnect is large, and if you were to hurt or tear him, you wouldn’t know until it was too late.

            You decide this is just something you have to deal with, and you push on. Inch by inch, the fleshy, erect form disappears inside Prompto, and he takes it all so commendably.

            When you’re about halfway in, the girth becomes too great, and his wincing too sharp. You consider stopping, but you know the Chancellor would be displeased. So you grab either side of Prompto’s hips, fingers gripping the hollows of his inner thighs, and tug him onto you as you push. A slippery, squelching noise as the remaining length finally sinks in. It buries deep, so deep, and Prompto is utterly impaled upon you. He yells — how could he not? — but recovers admirably, restraining his own voice back down to a sniffle and his movements back down to small shudders. You’ve never felt someone else’s skin thrumming so much beneath your touch like you do right now. He’s erect, painfully so, and you let your hands drift across the tip of his cock, smearing the small bead of precome across his skin.

            You give him a short moment to adjust, then you begin to move, back and forth, a short distance at first, but increasing with every thrust. In the back of your head is the directive from Ardyn — _don’t be kind, he can take it —_ and you try to obey, getting faster and more merciless as time goes on. Prompto is overwhelmed, that much is clear, but he’s enjoying it immensely. His skin is flushing rosy pink with far more than just the cold and the lashings now. His head is bowed and you wonder if he’s ashamed of just how much he likes it.

            And you push faster. Harder. Barely giving a second’s reprieve between each pounding. His breath turns from shallow and rushed to deep and filled with moans; every second a different noise, a different way of announcing to both you and the Chancellor that he is utterly, completely overcome by the lack of control.

            ‘Too much, is it?’ Ardyn’s saccharine voice breaks through. ‘But you’re doing so well. Mm… how about I make it a little harder for you?’ Now Ardyn’s bending down, unbuckling his belt and freeing his dick, then searching for Prompto’s chin and turning his face up. ‘Ahh… such an angel,’ he says, and he pauses, his tip resting on Prompto’s lips. Then, fingers wrapping tight in strands of hair, he yanks Prompto down hard onto his cock, and you know he has hit the back of the throat by the way Prompto splutters, back arching as if he’s about to be sick.

            You’re buried deep inside Prompto, to the hilt at this point, when Ardyn pulls him forward, and the resultant motion slips Prompto off the dildo by a couple of inches. He cries out, but it’s cut short by Ardyn’s cock, and Ardyn strokes up his cheek — it looks like he’s wiping tears from his eyes.

            A soft and pleasant sigh, now, and the Chancellor starts to rock into Prompto’s mouth, not bothering to keep in synch with your movements, so you are left to adjust to him instead. The entire spectacle is so incredibly hot, but nigh on unbearable, watching the young man writhing beneath you, stuffed at either end, shivering and shaking from the onslaught. You want to get off, so badly, but you’re stuck pleasuring, obeying. Serving, as a Glaive ought to.

            ‘Mm, keep it up… harder, now.’ Ardyn coaxes you on, and you redouble your focus. You pound harder while Ardyn does the same, both of you watching Prompto fall to pieces in rapt fascination.

            Your blood is roaring in your ears now. Prompto’s approaching orgasm, but it may as well be you, with how much this is turning you on. Just watching him come undone so thoroughly, it has you pulsing and on the edge, despite barely being touched. All you can get is a little friction on your groin from the strap-on’s harness. It’s enough to make you strive for more, so you slam into him with little care, chasing the elusive friction like you’re possessed.

            This proves the final nail in the coffin and he orgasms violently, bucking into you in quick, sharp movements, his cries muffled on the Chancellor’s cock. Ardyn tells you not to stop and you comply, keeping the thrusting going to Prompto’s utter horror. He can hardly do a thing about it, impaled from both ends, and Ardyn grows much more violent than you, abusing his mouth mercilessly, seeming almost angry with him, until, in a hard and heavy display he reaches his own orgasm, spilling his seed down Prompto’s throat until he chokes.

            ‘Stop! Stop.’ Ardyn’s command is a breathless one. His fingers twist in Prompto’s golden hair while he splutters at his feet. You finally, frustratedly stop.

            Ardyn seems only to have eyes for Prompto in the aftermath and he watches Prompto yelp as you retract the dildo slowly.

            ‘My pet, you’re so good. So very good,’ he tells him. ‘You can stop your shuddering now, here…’ He comes in to embrace him, and at first, Prompto yearns into his touch. Then, a flicker of annoyance across his face. Too much trembling still in his bones, and words that are clearly intended to be acerbic fall short of their mark.

            ‘Are you satisfied?’

            ‘Me?’ Ardyn holds a hand to his breast, again with the faux shock. Pause for effect, then he’s back in close, inches from Prompto’s face. ‘As if this isn’t _exactly_ what you wanted.’

            Prompto whispers curses in the last few seconds before their lips connect, and you know he’s damning Ardyn because it’s true.

            Their kiss is more like the hunger throes of two wild animals, and when they break off, the dear Chancellor returns to his devious bag of tricks. You pause, halfway done removing the harness. _What more could he be thinking of?_

            He takes out a candle, thin and purest white. It makes you wonder, and —

            The smallest sound escapes your throat along with your breath. The Chancellor turns, like he has just remembered you are there.

            ‘My dear Glaive, tell me what you’re thinking.’

            You hesitate, but Ardyn’s gaze is a powerful weapon.

            ‘I… thought it would be red.’

            ‘Oh, is that so?’ He laughs, turning the candle over in his hand. ‘Red is hardly a healing colour.’ He lights the thing — a flicker of magic is all it takes — and watches the wick burn as the light grows stronger. His eyes are illuminated.

            He turns his attention back to Prompto, stroking his cheek fondly. You are not expecting it when he tilts Prompto’s face upward, but Prompto is, because he obeys wordlessly and closes his eyes. Again, you feel left out.

            Then the Chancellor tips the candle forward. A thin pool of wax teeters on the lip, then spills onto Prompto’s cheek, only millimetres from his eyes.

            Prompto is still as a statue, making barely a sound as the hot wax hits his skin. You feel… jealousy. At how well he’s taking it, at how proud the Chancellor must be.

            Perhaps, next time, this will be you.

            You know the Chancellor is playing favourites, because how else will he find entertainment in the long dark, waiting for the King to return? You know he will do everything he can to incite, to provoke, to mess with you — with all of you who end up coming to him.

            But all the same, there is that seed in your mind. The desire to hurt Prompto rises, and it’s small, but it’s there.

            The Chancellor chooses this moment to look up at you, to focus his intense, soulful eyes at yours. It strips you bare, more so than had you removed all your clothing in front of him. You scramble, internally, to hide your thoughts, as though he can read them. _He knows_ , you think. _He knows._

He won’t let you act upon it any more today; he’s not that kind.

            ‘And now,’ he says to Prompto, ‘your reward.’ He leans in, presses their foreheads together, and holds his lips only centimetres from Prompto’s. He grips the young man’s throat, hard and vice-like, so Prompto is forced to open his mouth. Some of the wax flakes from his face and crumbles to the ground. And now Ardyn inhales, deep as if he’s tasting the depths of an ocean. Everything falls silent around you; never mind the biting wind, never mind the dark and shifting clouds above. It’s a hallowed space you’ve entered, and it resides between the cracks of reality. There’s a pressure, right around your navel, a heaviness like a kettlebell. And beneath it, something is shifting. You are entranced, watching the pair of them locked together in this strange ritual. Ardyn exhales, then breathes in again, and this time the pressure lifts and something tugs upwards. Out of Prompto’s mouth you watch a black stream of material come out. It’s almost like powder and it’s almost like smoke, and everything about it is the scent of death.

            Starscourge. The infection that eats light. It’s in Prompto, and it’s in you, too.

            In this moment, Ardyn is not the Chancellor. He’s a creature you cannot describe, consuming the darkness like he’s blotting away ink from paper, and the act of absorption is not a painless one, though he masters it well. The only giveaway is the tension held in his shoulders, and a look — such a sad look — in his half-closed eyes.

            He chokes a little when he is done. Spine curving as he recovers, then he is back to normal, all dangerous benevolence and grace, stroking Prompto’s cheek as though it was Prompto who had just suffered. ‘Oh, you make me so happy.’

            Prompto moves, finally, limbs shivering as he tries to steady himself against the ground. He is immediately supported by Ardyn, who whispers something too quiet for you to hear. Then he’s sorting his belt while Ardyn unties the leash from the pillar, and he’s retreating back into the darkness. He won’t be coming with you when you leave today, you know that much. And, another sly and worrying thought: perhaps he will not come back at all.

            Now, the Chancellor turns to you.

            ‘Never you fear,’ he says, smoothing a hand over your clothes, ‘I haven’t forgotten about you.’ He comes in now, and finally — _finally_ — you get your turn. When the Chancellor kisses you it’s like your whole world is dissolving. You’re completely submerged; he seems to fill all your senses, as thoroughly as the Starscourge itself does to every vein. You want him to take you, as roughly as you both had taken Prompto, but he does not go beyond a kiss. He breaks off, holding your shoulders steady, and he presses his forehead to yours.

            The process begins. The sensation is much more localised this time, rising from within you, as slowly as drops of pitch, if only gravity was inverted. For a second you swoon and you’re out of it — you’re unsure if you are awake or asleep or somewhere in between. It’s hard to keep track.

            The feeling rises, forcing its way up your throat like bile after a night out. It feels awful, the separation, like the ripping-off of sticky tape that does not want to budge, but eventually it shifts, and the dark glittering powder spills from your mouth now into his.

            By the end of the process, you feel a little lighter, a little more in control of your faculties. It’s not a complete cure, but the fact he is willing to do anything at all for you makes you feel somehow special, somehow worth something. _Can’t have you dying when there is still so much to do,_ he had said, on your very first meeting.

            The eater of sins chokes back his pain one last time and steps out of the limelight. Chancellor Ardyn Izunia comes to the fore once more, and it’s back to that self-assured grin with him. His hand passes over your groin — just a tease, nothing more — and he whispers, ‘Next time.’

            Then he sets you on your way.

           


End file.
